Outcasts
by Jalos
Summary: It's been five years since the survivors got rescued, and Francis drew the attention of a tank to let the others escape.  Now, a mysteriously familiar criminal is looking for recruits in a war of revenge, and the survivors will have to pick a side.
1. Refugees

It's been five years since the daring military rescue at that unforgettable, lonesome old farmhouse in Alleghany, Pennsylvania. Five years of military examinations, being shuttled from one quarantine zone to another, and, occasionally, being conscripted to help with "sanitization." This last was just a fancy word for zombie-killing; sometimes, a military officer would decide they were running out of space, and an immunes-only "sanitization team" would be ferried by helicopter into an infected zone with orders to "clean it out." This was a nightmare job that no one wanted. House by house, room by room, closet by closet, an area of up to several city blocks would be cleaned out. Most of the time, the area would have lost power, and you would be stumbling around in inky blackness with nothing but your dim, flickering flashlight to see by, kicking down doors and ripping open closets, deliberately _looking_ for the infected. Sometimes there were fights in the camps when sanitization time drew near.

But before all that started, back when the national animal of America seemed to be the zombie, four people walked into a lonely, desolate farmhouse in Alleghany. Four people barricaded themselves in, called the military, and prepared for a siege. Only three people got on the APC and were evacuated out of there. Francis was left behind, left for dead. Abandoned. When push came to shove, a side of the gruff, grizzly biker no one had ever seen before emerged. The APC had parked outside the farmhouse, the soldiers inside shouting for the survivors to just _get in the damn vehicle!_ What they didn't see was the tank. It dropped from the roof of the farmhouse directly in the path of the APC, roaring and bellowing. Francis was the first to see it. "Get in! Get in!" he yelled, shoving his closest teammate - Zoey - into the belly of the waiting APC. Bill and Louis followed without thinking, and Francis slammed the hatch close button. From outside the vehicle. "What the hell are you doing!" Bill yelled, eyes going wide. Zoey leapt for the door, throwing her shoulder against it to try to stop it from closing, practically in tears. "God damn it, Francis, open that door and get in here! We're all leaving _together! _You _promised!_" Francis turned and gave her a long look, his face a picture of deadly calm. "If someone doesn't distract that tank, it's going to smash the APC like a cardboard box, and _no one's_ going to be getting out. With my bad attitude and criminal record, they probably wouldn't have been too fond of me in the safe zone anyway, eh?" A hint of a smile tugged up at one corner of his lips, a hopeless attempt at humor in a humorless situation. Zoey slumped down on the floor, crying and murmuring "No… no…" Bill stood up and walked over to the hatch as it slowly, inexorably closed. "Let me do it, son," he said, ramming the bolt home on his assault rifle. "You've got a long life ahead of you, whereas me… well, I'm getting' up there in years." Francis shook his head, and said simply "They're gonna need you," before the hatch slammed shut on any further protestations.

Unslinging the autoshotgun from his back, Francis strode forward towards the tank, grim and outwardly emotionless. Raising the big weapon, he gave the hulking monstrosity a blast straight in the face, then turned and dashed off away from the APC, luring the tank with a few more shotgun blasts over his shoulder. Turning, the behemoth gave chase, roaring in fury. With a roar of its engine, the APC lurched forward and sped off, smashing through the flimsy fence that bordered the farmhouse and escaping into the wilderness as the sun broke over the horizon.

Now it's five years later, and the survivors of the "Green Flu" - as what's left of the American government calls it - are all finally leaving the army internment camps they had been placed into when they were evacuated. Those lucky enough not to be carriers of the infection were all returned to "regular" cities along the mostly-uninfected west coast; Los Angeles, Seattle and Las Vegas being the three main "rehabilitation hubs," as the army was calling them. All of those who were carriers, however, were segregated from the rest of society: driven out by bus into the middle of some godforsaken wasteland and dumped unceremoniously into an immunes-only refugee camp. Little more than shanty towns, these ramshackle villages of wood were highly reminiscent of towns back in the Wild West days, both in look and in attitude.

Bill sat at the grungy bar, sipping idly from a glass of beer. It tasted like, in Bill's own colorful language, "piss-water," but it was better than water to calm fraying nerves. The old veteran's age was really starting to show; his beard had grown out and was now silvery-white instead of its previous grey color, the lines on his face were deepening, and he moved with the unsteady, jerky gait of one on whom arthritis is starting to take hold. The holstered handgun at his hip, however, spoke volumes about his undimmed fighting spirit. His beloved beret was gone, letting his long, unkempt silver hair tumble about his neck and shoulders. Steely eyes glared out from under bushy brows at the far wall as he toyed absentmindedly with his glass, the almond-colored liquid inside sloshing about as the cup moved. It had been five years since Francis had lured the tank away from them, and Bill could still picture the expression of grim determination on the biker's face as the APC's hatch slammed shut. From the tautness of his face, the way his chin muscles worked, Bill knew the big man was fighting back tears, which was what really got to the old veteran - Francis _never_ cried.

Shaking his shaggy head to clear it of unwanted memories, Bill threw back the last of his beer and stood up shakily. Even though age and arthritis had rendered his legs unsteady, Bill grimly refused to use a cane. He was too proud to accept the weakness slowly taking hold of his body. As he passed through the front door of the bar, his eye was caught by the wanted poster standing nearby, as it had been every day for the past week since it was put up. Something about the muscular, broad-shouldered figure in the low-quality photograph was eerily familiar; the way he stood, his thick arms folded over his broad chest; the tattoo on his bare upper right arm. Bill got the feeling he'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't place him. Scratching his thick beard, Bill shook his head and walked past.

"Well lookie right here," a slightly nasal voice, thick with southern accent, burst from somewhere to his left as Bill entered the mechanic's shop. Turning, the old veteran grinned as he took in the young man striding towards him. Ellis had grown quite a bit in the last five years. No longer the 'kid' of the group, he had bulked out significantly, filling out the old Bullshifters T-shirt that he stubbornly refused to get rid of, even though the thing had more holes in it than a cheese grater. He'd somehow found a tattoo artist in the refugee camp, and the tribal design on his right bicep had been extended to cover his entire arm. A five-o'-clock shadow was evident on his chin, and his ballcap rested atop a shaggy mop of brown hair. "Bill!" he said, taking the vet's hand and giving it a hearty shake. "Well hot damn, but it's good t'see you! Tell me, what bring's ya'll out here t'day?" "Just checkin' in on my girl," Bill said, nodding his head in the direction of the jungle-camo pattern jeep that crouched in one corner of the shop. "Oh, she's doin' jus' fine," Ellis said, grinning and not letting go of Bill's hand. "She's a real beaut, she is. She reminds me o' this jeep mah buddy Keith used to own…" Bill smiled indulgently as Ellis went off on one of his usual rants. Even after five years, the man had never run out of crazy stories about Keith.

Several minutes later, Bill stepped out of the garage, waving back over his shoulder. Ellis's voice trailed out after him, saying "Now you come back right soon, y'hear me? Yer girl's just 'bout all fixed up, an' I'd hate t'see a purty thing like her sit 'round in a shop like mine all day!" Yelling over his shoulder "I think I'll do just that! Thanks a lot, Ellis!" Bill made his way down the street, glancing around at the building around him. A slapdash amalgamation of architectural styles, this place was as eclectic as you could get. It had been around for years, with a slow, steady stream of newcomers trickling in and adding on, piece by piece. The oldest buildings were made of stone and masonry, almost medieval in appearance, with thick walls, small windows and reinforced doors. Those were back from the time when occasional roving packs of zombie still wandered into town. Then there were the slightly newer wooden houses and bars that looked vaguely reminiscent of buildings back from the days of the Old West: when new refugees had moved in, they lacked the funds, time and necessity to build their houses out of stone, so went for the cheaper and easier route of wood. And finally there were the newest addition to the towns, the shanties and lean-tos made of quite literally anything and everything. These were the houses of the destitute and the homeless, those who had most recently arrived in the town and hadn't had enough funds or time to build anything else. They were crammed in between buildings or in empty backlots, jumbled together anywhere there was room. Ellis's mechanic shop was in between a saloon and a shanty; with sturdy wood walls and an actual proper door, it was far nicer than most of the newest houses, but was still in its infantile stages, some of its corrugated iron reinforcements and cloth-covered windows still remaining from its earlier stages of life.

The house where Bill, Zoey and Louis lived was one of the old stone ones. It had been recently vacated when the threesome moved into town, and they had snapped it up before anyone else could get their hands on it. Zoey and Louis had worked together to make the place a little more livable, going out and buying rugs, lamps and various pieces of furniture to fill the barren abode, but there was still something about it, something primitive and unfinished, that left it feeling a bit less homely than it otherwise would have.

Pushing open the heavy oak door, Bill stepped into the candle-lit living room. A leather couch was pushed into one corner, a rickety coffee table set before it. The room had two arched doorways leading off from it, one on the far side that led to the dining room and kitchen, one directly to Bill's left that would take him to the staircase that led to the second floor. It was down these stairs that Zoey came running as she heard the door open, skidding to a halt in the door to the living room. She had replaced her sweater with a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows and a black denim vest - although she would never admit it, Bill knew it was an homage to Francis - and had bought a new pair of jeans and cowboy boots. She had let her hair down, and it now dangled about her shoulders in an ebony curtain that bounced as she ran.

"Heya, Bill!" she said, grinning that grin that she only broke out when something really special had just happened. Planting his fists akimbo and giving Zoey a slightly skeptical look from beneath his bushy brows, Bill said "What happened now? Has someone in the area baked us some brownies?" Zoey's eyes took on a dreamy look, and she murmured "God, what I wouldn't give for some brownies right now…" A few moments later, she snapped out of her daze, and said "Come upstairs and see!" "Damn it, Zoey, you know I hate stairs," Bill grumbled, and Zoey flashed him a wicked grin that implied she knew very well just how much he hated them. Then she whipped around in a swirl of dark hair and dashed back up the stairs. Muttering, Bill followed.

Louis and Zoey were waiting for him in his bedroom, a small cardboard box sitting on the floor between them. Louis didn't look much different than he did in the apocalypse, still wearing a white shirt and slacks, but he had lost the tie and now sported a mess of dreadlocks. Bill folded his arms over his chest, and said "Okay, what's in the box?" "So, the military went and reclaimed that old farmhouse in Alleghany," Louis began, "And they found something interesting inside." He stooped down and picked up the box, passing it over to Bill. With a sigh, Bill pulled out his combat knife and sliced open the packing tape that held the box closed, then pulled open the flap on top and rifled through the packing peanuts inside. What he extracted from the box made his eyes widen in shock. It was slightly singed and punctured with a few bullet-holes, but was easily recognizable as his old beret. "How… what…" he stammered, looking back and forth between the beret and his two friends, who were both grinning like loons. "They identified the owner by the nametag on the inside, and had it shipped here upon discovering you were still alive." Bill was about to say something else, when the ground shook and the air was rent by a massive explosion from somewhere outside.


	2. An Unlikely Survivor

Bill was the first out of the house, pausing only to snatch up the assault rifle from the dresser and jam his beret back on his head before limping as fast as his old legs would carry him down the stairs, bursting through the front door and gazing around in search of the cause of the explosion. It didn't take him long to find it. The street to his right was in flames, the local CEDA office in ruins, lying in little pieces strewn across the street, and all of it blazing like a giant bonfire. Silhouetted against the maelstrom of fire was a tall, broad-shouldered and powerfully built figure. Bill couldn't make much out at this range, but he was definitely walking in Bill's direction. And given that he was walking, not running, he probably caused the explosion.

Now, Bill was not terribly fond of CEDA - no one was, given how badly they failed in their duties to the American people during the first week or two of the infection - but not liking someone and being perfectly fine with having their building blown to hell not two blocks from where you lived were two completely different things. Overturning the rocker that stood outside their house, Bill knelt behind it, training his rifle on the advancing figure and waiting.

As he drew closer, the man became clearly recognizable as the figure from the wanted posters that had been plastered up all over town. He looked even bigger and more muscular close-up, and Bill got the impression that this was someone who could easily take on and kick the ass of most people he knew. It was not a reassuring thought.

The man wore a pair of dirty jeans over steel-toed motorcycle boots, a white muscle shirt and a black leather jacket. The right sleeve of the jacket had been torn completely off, leaving his right shoulder and bicep bare. His lower arm, however, was covered by an elbow-length black leather glove. A blood-red scarf concealed his nose and mouth, and a cowboy-style hat shadowed his eyes. Bill's trained eyes immediately took in the big-bore pump-action shotgun resting on his shoulder, and the large-caliber revolver holstered at his hip, and the vet swallowed.

The man stopped about ten yards from Bill's position, lowering the shotgun into a two-handed grip. This simple act revealed the tattoo on his right arm, and once again Bill was struck with the glaring familiarity of the tattoo. Bill knew, _knew_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd seen it somewhere before. "Who the hell are you?" Bill yelled, not lowering his rifle. "Who the hell are _you?_" the big man shot back, voice muffled and slightly distorted by the scarf covering his mouth. "One to whom the safety of this town is important, and that's all you need to know!"

The other man tilted his head to the side for a moment, considering. Then Bill saw something spark in his mostly-hidden eyes, a flash of recognition. It was hidden almost as fast as it appeared, however, leaving Bill wondering if he'd imagined it. "If that's true," the big man growled, taking a step forward, "Then I'd think you wouldn't be too fond of those assholes in CEDA letting us sit here and stagnate in poverty while they live the high life in those 'rehabilitation hubs' on the west coast! You think that's fair!"

Bill had noticed the use of the word 'us'. It implied that this man was somehow connected to the town - or to Bill personally. "No, I don't think it's fair," Bill yelled back, "But I don't think blowing up their office is going to solve anything!" The big man took another step forward, and roared "Yeah! Well, tell me what the fuck to do instead! I talked to them about it, they ignored me! I sued their sorry asses, they hired the best, hardest-hitting lawyers in what's left of the country and knocked my case down! If they're not gonna listen to us, then I'm gonna damn well _make them_ listen!"

It was at that moment that Zoey and Louis burst out of the house, guns locked, loaded and at the ready. Both of them skidded to a halt as they took in the huge man facing off with Bill, and the man similarly broke off in his rant, staring at both of Bill's companions. Bill noticed that his gaze rested for an oddly long time on Zoey, before he wrenched it back to Bill. There was silence for a long moment, then the big man said "Fine. Whatever. If you change your mind, come to Ellis's shop tonight." Pausing to swipe his glare over all three of them, he added "And come alone. Just you three, no one else, and for goddamn sure no cops." So saying, he turned on his heel and stalked off, replacing the shotgun on his shoulder once more.

"I get the feeling I know that man from somewhere," Bill mused, sitting at the dinner table. "Yeah, no kidding," Zoey agreed, before taking a hearty bite of her sandwich. Louis was shaking his head and rubbing his chin in thought, and after a long moment of silence he said "That tattoo looked just like… no, it couldn't be." "What?" Bill said, looking up from his food, interest aroused. Still shaking his head, Louis said "It looked just like a tattoo that…" he broke off, looked down at his plate, and finished "…that Francis had." Then it clicked. That's where Bill had seen the tattoo before! Of course! Was this guy from the same gang or something? His mind whirring, Bill bit into his sandwich, took a moment to swallow, then said "So, are we meeting this guy or not?"

Bill, Zoey and Louis arrived, as directed, at Ellis's mechanic shop that night, about an hour after sundown. The only lighting came from the dim, flickering street lamps which threw unsteady orange light over everything, lending the scene an unreal and slightly ominous quality. The door of Ellis's shop was standing open, as if inviting them to come inside. From within shone a brighter, white light, spilling a pool of radiance out of the open door to illuminate the street beyond. Bill stepped through first, assault rifle slung across his back, beret perched atop his mane of silvery hair. His gaze raked the room, and settled with some surprise around the scene playing out in one corner of the shop.

Ellis was seated at a table, baseball cap resting on one knee. One hand was holding a half-dozen or so playing cards, and the other was running absently through the hair on the back of his head. He bore a slightly pained look, as if the cards he held in his hand were not the cards he wanted. Many cards were strewn about on the tabletop, and two empty beer bottles were discarded on the floor beneath it. But what startled Bill the most was the sight of the big criminal standing on the other side of the table, leaning against an adjacent wall, legs crossed. He still wore his concealing scarf, but his cowboy hat had been removed and sat on the table next to a half-full bottle of beer, revealing a buzzcut of chestnut-colored hair coming down in a widow's peak above his forehead. Eyes like chips of flint flicked up from beneath hard, angular brows as the group walked in, and he set his hand of cards face-down on the table, pushing off the wall and moving over to greet them.

"Good to see you," he said, folding his powerful arms over his chest as he stood before the group. "So, have you reconsidered?" Louis held up a finger in a 'wait' gesture, and said "Hold on, what the hell are we 'reconsidering', anyway?" The big man's gaze flashed to Bill with a questioning look, as if saying 'you didn't tell them?' When Bill made no response, the big man looked back to Louis and said "I made something of a proposition to your friend here when we met earlier. I hate CEDA, and I can tell none of you folks are too keen on them either. So I asked the old man here if you all would care to join my cause."

Bill narrowed his eyes. Did this big, gruff, tattooed criminal just say 'I hate CEDA?' Bill was suddenly reminded of another big, gruff, tattooed man, one who wore vests all the time and seemed to hate more things than not. And then it clicked; the tattoo, the penchant for leather, the flicker of recognition, the attitude… "Holy shit…" Bill breathed, eyes widening, and the big man turned toward him, growling "Got a problem, Gramps?" Bill put a hand to his chest in an attempt to slow his racing heart, and started to say "Francis…" But he only got halfway through the word before the big man was on him like a striking viper, pinning him to the wall with an arm across his chest and temporarily stunning the old vet. The man's grizzled visage was less than six inches from Bill's, and he hissed through clenched teeth "Listen to me, damn you! Francis died back in that farmhouse, you got that?"

Bill was temporarily unable to speak, so shocked was he at both the revelation that his old friend was alive, and the vehemence and rage behind his outburst. Seeming to calm down a little bit, Francis growled "Look, Bill. People in the government want me - Francis - dead, and they're still looking for me. That's why they searched the farmhouse so thoroughly, and found this," he tugged gently on Bill's beret. "Because of…" he broke off, thought for a second, then finished "…something I did before the infection, these people _really_ want me dead, and right now, they're under the impression that I am. If any of them get a whiff of the fact that the big, badass criminal who's been wreaking havoc with CEDA's local offices is, in fact, the man they've been hunting like bloodhounds for the past _year_, they'll be all over me faster than you can say 'dead'!" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried easily as much force as if Francis had been yelling.

Suddenly, Francis was aware that Zoey and Louis had their guns drawn and were pointing them at his back, faces grim. "Let go of him," Louis said, his voice full of deadly calm. "Now." Francis complied, opening his hand and releasing the fistful of Bill's jacket he had grabbed. Turning around, he massaged his brow for a moment, then said, more to himself than anyone else, "What the hell, Bill already knows, it can't hurt that much." Zoey looked like she wanted badly to ask what the hell he meant, but Francis beat her to it, reaching up and unwinding the blood-red scarf about his face. As the concealing garment fell away, both Zoey's and Louis's eyes widened in shock. Zoey took an involuntary step back, hand to her heart. Louis was motionless, staring at the big man with disbelief etched on every feature. Before them stood, like a man back from the dead, the biker who had sacrificed himself to save the team. Bill's lips twisted upward in a grin, and he said "Well, well… looks like you really are indestructible."


	3. Enemies Old and New

**Downtown Philadelphia, September 3****rd****, 2009:**

The alley was dark, secluded, and stained with water, beer and God-knows-what-else, as they always are. Francis stood leaning against a dirty brick wall beneath an unlit neon sign that proclaimed "Joe's Diner," in what used to be cheerful red letters. Now they were grey and cracked with disuse, cobwebs dangling from the old sign like tattered banners, flapping in the slight breeze. Rain hammered down from the sky in an incessant torrent that splattered off of the biker's broad shoulders and close-shaven head as he stood, glowering at nothing in particular.

"Goddamn it," Francis growled, reaching up to wipe away water that was spilling down his forehead and into his eyes. "Son of a bitch is always late." Folding his powerful arms over his chest, he looked up and down the rain-battered alley. And then he saw them.

Three men, all of them large. They ranged in height from six-one to six-three, all of them powerfully built, with broad shoulders, thick biceps and barrel chests. All of them wore well-tailored navy blue suits and sunglasses - even though it was dark as hell and raining - and on all of them Francis could see the slight bulge just beneath the shoulder that indicated a concealed handgun. Two were on one side, one on the other, hemming him in. Blocking his escape routes.

"Ah, shit," Francis growled, pushing himself off the wall, calculating his odds. The man who was by himself reached Francis first, and whipped a badge from his jacket pocket. Francis read the large, yellow letters printed on the simple, unadorned badge, and his heart froze. "Special Agent Harper, FBI," the man in the suit said. "We'd like you to come with us."

**Carrier Refugee Camp somewhere in the desert, present day:**

Francis lay on the cold concrete floor, hands beneath his head as a makeshift pillow, staring up at the ceiling. The re-union with Bill and the rest of the crew had brought back some memories that he would rather have left buried. Rolling onto his side, he spent several long moments studying the crude wall, taking in the patterns of knots and curving, wavy lines in the wood. Then he heard a door click behind him.

Instinct had him on his feet in a fighting stance before his conscious mind even registered the possible threat. The 'apartment' was nearly pitch-black, the only light coming from the pale half-moon outside and filtering through the barred window to splash patches of dim, silvery glow on the walls and floor. The door into the apartment, however, was completely in shadow, which meant that he couldn't see his visitor until they were in his bedroom.

He was tensing, the age-old 'fight or flight' instinct taking firm hold of him, when into the feeble moonlight walked none other than Zoey, a six-pack of beer held in one hand. Francis blew out his breath in a long sigh, then leaned against the wall, trying to look nonchalant, and said "What's up, babe?"

Zoey half-jumped when he spoke, her eyes not having adjusted to the gloom inside the building. She recovered quickly, however, and jingled the beer she held. "I got lonely," she said simply, and Francis smiled. It had been too long since he'd heard her voice. Far too long.

"Gimme a sec," he said, pushing off the wall and moving across the room. "Lemme turn on some lights." After a few moments of fumbling about in the darkness, he finally found the light switch, and the room was suddenly filled with a warm, yellowish glow as the old incandescent bulb mounted on the ceiling flared to life.

"So, this 'thing' you were involved in before the infection, that the government wants to kill you for… what was it?" Zoey said, popping the cap on her beer can and taking a sip. She and Francis sat at the single, old table in his simple, two-room flat, the remaining four beers sitting on the table between them. Francis had leaned his chair back and now reclined, legs crossed and feet propped up on the table, chair balanced precariously on two legs. Taking a long pull from his beer, he lowered the can and said "Information dealing." He didn't elaborate, so Zoey didn't push it, and they sat and sipped in silence for several minutes, merely enjoying each other's company after so long apart.

The silence was broken by a high, keening whistle, growing steadily louder in volume. Zoey looked around for the source of the noise, and muttered "What the hell?"

It was only Francis's keen instincts that saved their lives, and the fact that he'd heard that sound before. With a curse, he leapt forwards across the table, barreling into Zoey in a full-body tackle and knocking her chair over backwards, throwing them both across the room and shielding her with his body.

Then the rocket impacted. With a roar like an enraged beast, one corner of the room exploded in a fierce, rolling fireball of sound and fury that engulfed everything it touched. Francis could feel the heat from almost ten feet away, scorching his back and burning the air from his lungs. Coughing, he struggled to his feet, his .50 Magnum revolver already drawn and trained on the newly-formed hole in the wall. Zoey hauled herself upright behind him, too shocked to say anything.

As the fire died away, Francis took a few cautious steps toward the blast crater, peering out through the ragged hole in the wood, the edges still dancing with red-orange flames. Nothing could be seen in the street outside - no government APCS or black, unmarked vans, no soldiers, no helicopters. Nothing. And that scared Francis more than any overt show of military force could have.

"Fuck!" he cursed, slamming a gloved fist into the wall and cracking it. Whirling, eyes ablaze with reflected firelight, he roared "I goddamn knew it! I open up to you guys and tell you my secret, and not two hours later, I get my home blown up by a fucking rocket launcher!" Holstering his revolver, he brushed past a stunned and hurt looking Zoey, growling "I need to get out of here, and find out who the hell just tried to kill me." Turning back when he reached the door, he added "Thanks for the beer," then yanked the door open and stormed out, slamming it behind him.

Bill was asleep in his house less than a block away when the rocket detonated. Leaping from the bed and snatching the rifle off his dresser before he was even awake, instincts honed to a razor edge in Viet Nam screaming at him to get up and move. Dressed only in a nightshirt and boxers, the old vet flicked the safety on the rifle off and ran to the window, shoving aside the drapes and staring out at the billowing fireball that lit the night sky. Louis stumbled blearily out of bed behind him, muttering sleepily and groping for his gun.

"What the hell was _that?_" Louis said, voice still slurred from sleep, while slamming a magazine into the Glock 9mm he kept in the drawer of his bedside table. "A missile," Bill said, resting his M16 on his shoulder and turning to face the younger black man. "And a small one. This wasn't some undirected, general-purpose bombing; this was precise, planned destruction with a purpose. Someone really wanted someone else - and a very specific someone else - dead." Louis's eyes widened, and he ran a nervous hand through his dreadlocks, a worried look on his face. "That ain't good news for the town," he said, glancing out the window at the smoldering house that the rocket had impacted. "No it isn't," Bill agreed, pushing past Louis and moving to his dresser. "And that means it's not good news for us, either."

Francis hated many things. In fact, the list of things he didn't hate was shorter than the list of things he hated - or so Bill had joked once after a particularly fierce bout of complaining. But, most of all, more than the woods, more than helicopters and, yes, even more than Canada, Francis hated it when people tried to kill those close to him. People trying to kill _him_ was old news; he'd been punched, shot, stabbed and bludgeoned countless times even before the infection. He'd even had someone try to garrote him once. But when people went after his friends - even indirectly - he got pissed.

It was in just such a rage that he stalked down the street, huge revolver clutched in a white-knuckled fist, his furious gaze sweeping the surrounding buildings. He was sure, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the person who had shot a missile at his house was in some way connected to his past, and that meant one of three things; either they were an FBI agent, a member of a rival gang, or working for CEDA. A gang member or CEDA worker he could handle - he'd killed more gangbangers in his life than most gamers had on Grand Theft Auto, and after all he'd done to them, CEDA didn't scare him at all. But if the FBI was in on this, things could get really ugly, really fast. The FBI had resources that lesser organizations could only fantasize about, and if the President - yes, there still was a President after all the shit that had happened to the country - got a whiff of a credible threat to the safety of his country, a squadron of FBI agents in Apache attack helicopters would swoop out of the sky before you could say 'totally screwed'.

Francis had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him it wasn't either of the latter two options. Most gangs had been wiped out, and CEDA had been practically castrated by the military after their utter failure to hold the infection in check. Neither of them could muster the resources to track him down, buy a rocket launcher and a man who knew how to use it, and blow his house up. That left one option, and Francis didn't like it one bit. What he liked less, however, was the fact that two large men in suits had stepped out in the road in front of him, blocking his path, and one of them had a Colt .45 trained on his forehead.

His revolver was up before the agents in his way could even blink, the 8-inch-long barrel unwavering and locked between the eyes of the man pointing the Colt at him. For several moments, they stared each other down like two silverback gorillas, sizing each other up, each trying to force the other to back down. "Step aside," Francis growled, "Before I put a hole in your head you could drive a truck through." The agent didn't flinch, and didn't say a word.

"Well then," Francis growled, pulling the hammer back on the massive revolver he held and giving the agent a feral smile. "Do you want to place a bet on how big the splatter is going to be when I blow your brains out? I'm putting ten bucks on… oh, let's say, ten feet back and four feet wide." The agent swallowed visibly, but to his credit, made no other outward signs of fear, simply saying - in an admirably calm voice - "We would like you to come with us, sir. The Director wants to speak with you."

That gave Francis pause. If the FBI wanted him dead, this agent could have put a bullet in his head long before this. Or they could have done away with formalities altogether and blown his head off with a sniper rifle from a rooftop. The fact that he wasn't dead yet implied that he wasn't going to die - at least, not yet. With a grunt, Francis clicked the hammer on his gun forward again, twirling the huge pistol on his finger before slipping it into its holster. "Okay," he growled, folding his arms over his chest and giving the two agents a hard stare. "But this better be good."

"Francis John Dixon," drawled the shadowy figure on the flip-down monitor. Francis, reclining in the highly expensive leather seat in the back of the government limousine he'd been escorted to, said nothing, merely fixing the man with a steely glare. "We've been looking for you for a long time," the shadowy figure continued, reaching down and ruffling through a stack of papers that sat on his desk. "So long, in fact, that-…"

Francis cut him off, looking around the interior of the limo and growling "Hey, anyone got a beer? I'm thirsty, and my last six-pack got incinerated." There was a long pause, and then the shadowy figure on the screen leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk in front of him, and said "Mr. Dixon, perhaps you do not grasp the gravity of the situation. You are obstructing an investigation, in which you are one of the prime suspects. If you are not careful, you could swiftly find yourself facing life in prison - or worse."

Francis's glare did not falter, and he snarled "Cut the bullshit, whoever you are. You're here about what I did in Philadelphia, right?" The shadowy figure looked genuinely taken aback, and there was another long moment of silence before he spoke again. "Mr. Dixon, the President passed a general pardon on all crimes committed before the infection. I do not know or care what you did in Philadelphia." He leaned forward, and Francis caught the glint of steely eyes in the shadows of his face as he finished "I care about what you've done since your relocation."


	4. The Interview

Francis sat in a darkened room, slouching casually in a padded metal chair that he was altogether too large for. The fingers of his left hand drummed on the mahogany tabletop in front of him, and his right hand hovered near - but not quite touching - his revolver. His posture was one of extreme nonchalance, but his eyes constantly flicked around the shadowy room, scanning for hidden threats.

Across from him, almost entirely shadowed save for his forearms arms, which rested on the table and were garbed in the sleeves of a very expensive-looking navy blue suit jacket, sat the man he had been talking to in the car ride to this building. At least, Francis assumed it was the same man, because his voice sounded the same.

"Mr. Dixon," the voice said, silky and smooth, "Is it true that you have been bombing CEDA facilities across the country?" Francis gave the man a wolfish grin, and said "Hell yeah it is. Bastards had it coming." The shadowy figure waved a dismissive hand, and said "Irrelevant, Mr. Dixon. My business is not that of a judge. I am not here to decide whether or not what you did was justified." The shadowy man leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs, and continued "I am here as part of an investigation into a series of events which I believe concern you."

Steely eyes flashed in the darkness, and the shadowy figure's voice took on a menacing undertone as he added "Events in which I believe you might be the culprit." Francis raised a thick eyebrow, but said nothing. The other man produced from within his jacket a manila folder, which he slapped down on the table. Dozens of papers slid out onto the wooden tabletop; pictures of people - mostly headshots - pages and pages of text, short biographies, criminal records, and several other collections of information that Francis couldn't readily identify.

"This folder contains every bit of information we could scrounge about twelve people who went missing without a trace recently. Adam Brooke, Robert Fletcher, Cameron Smith, Gabriel Thompson, John Harvey, Nicholas Derringer, Joseph Harper, Melissa Roberts, Emily White, Sonya Parker, Nicole Humphries, and Kim McArthur. All of them were carriers of the Green Flu."

A newspaper followed the manila folder, the front page declaring '_Templars on the March_' over a picture of a burned-out husk of a building. The shadowy man said "And then we have the Templars. They're a radical religious anti-carrier group who believe that the infection was the work of the Devil and anyone infected with it - IE carriers - is an abomination in the eyes of God. They're also known for hating CEDA with a passion, and they have a fondness for explosives. Templar activity has doubled in the past week alone."

Leaning forward - though not far enough to illuminate his face - and steepling his fingers on the table, the shadow figure finished "And then you come in. You've been waging your own war on CEDA - with explosives, I might add - leaving a trail of destruction from Colorado to New Mexico and destroying more than a billion dollars worth of government property. Now, Mr. Dixon," the man leaned back, spreading his hands in a sweeping gesture toward the evidence on the table and Francis himself, "I don't subscribe to coincidence. I believe all of these are connected somehow." The man's hard, steely eyes flashed again, and he finished "And I brought you here to tell me exactly how."

Bill had straightened his beret, thrown on his military-style camo-pattern pants and jacket and was lacing up his combat boots when Zoey burst through the door, looking slightly stunned and more than a little afraid. Her hair was mussed, as her shirt was dusted with what looked suspiciously like soot.

"Zoey?" Bill said, looking up from his boots. "What's going on?" Zoey leaned against a nearby wall, paused to catch her breath, and said "Someone with a rocket launcher just tried to kill me." Bill's eyebrows shot up, and he lurched stiffly upright - much to the displeasure of his back - with a cry of "_What!_" "Well," Zoey corrected herself, "I don't think they were specifically after me. I think they were after Francis, and I just happened to be in his vicinity."

Bill narrowed his eyes, his mental wheels spinning. So. That rocket that he'd seen earlier had been aimed at Francis, had it? "Well, this just got a lot more interesting," Bill said, picking up the assault rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "Interesting how?" Louis asked from the other room, as he belted on the holster for his pistol.

Bill shot the younger man a glance, and said "Interesting meaning someone just tried to kill Francis. They were very direct and personal about it, and they didn't want to fail."

"But they did fail," Zoey put in, still looking a bit shaken. Bill gave her a brief nod, and said "True. But if they didn't care about their chances of success, they would have kicked in his door and shot him. The reason they resorted to such extreme measures as a rocket launcher is because - to an extent - they're afraid of him."

Francis restrained himself - barely - from launching himself over the table and strangling to man. Instead, here merely leaned forward, gave the man his best withering glare, and snarled "I don't know a damn thing about how any of this shit is connected. All I know is that I was having a beer with my girlfriend, and suddenly half of my fucking apartment is incinerated by some asshole with a rocket launcher!"

The man across the table recoiled slightly, both from Francis' tone and the profanity lacing the single sentence. Clearly used to calmer, more high-brow conversations, the shadowy figure took a second to regain his composure, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, then said "So… it was _your_ apartment that got hit with a rocket this evening? Interesting…"

Francis leaned back, and said "What, you thought _I_ was the master planner behind all this? You thought I was working with the Templars to abduct and kill carriers?" Leaning forward again, Francis jabbed a finger into the tabletop, and half-yelled "News flash, asshole! _I am _a carrier! The Templar's ain't exactly chummy with me, and you'd have to be stupid to think that they would actually take orders from me!"

The shadowy figure on the other side of the desk stiffened. His smooth, silky voice took on a deadly edge of anger, and steely eyes flashed in the darkness as he said "Mr. Dixon, you would do well to watch your tone with me." Placing his palms on the table, the man added "Now, this 'girlfriend' of yours… who is she?"

Francis's mouth snapped shut with an audible 'clack'. Folding his powerful arms over his chest, the big man glared daggers up at his interrogator, but said nothing. And continued to say nothing for five long seconds of awkward, dangerous silence.

The man on the other side of the desk growled wordlessly, and leaned forward farther, his face entering the light. Hard, chiseled features were revealed, topped with a neatly-combed shock of black hair and framed with a two-day stubble. His nose had that bend in it that implied it had been broken multiple times, and an eyepatch covered part of the long, jagged scar that ran across his left eye. The smooth, silky tone in his voice had vanished, replaced with a hard, merciless growl. "Who. Is. She?"

He didn't speak particularly loud, but the simple three words carried enough force to make Francis lean back a little. Standing up very slowly, Francis leaned forward until his face was not more than two inches from the other man's, and snarled "Fuck off." Then he pulled a fist back, and slugged the man across the jaw.

The man's bodyguards were on him before he could blink. The two large men in expensive suits had been standing behind him, flanking him throughout the whole interview. Their boss hadn't even hit the floor as they lunged forward, each one taking hold of one of Francis's arms and holding the larger man fast. Francis struggled like a cornered lion, snarling oaths, but the two bodyguards held him fast.

Wiping blood from his mouth, the man Francis had punched picked himself slowly up off the ground, muttering imprecations and comments on Francis's parentage. Finally reaching his feet, he snarled "Bad move, biker boy," and reached into his jacket. From out of the well-tailored depths slid the sleek, shining form of a long-barreled .50 caliber Desert Eagle, which the man leveled at Francis's chest. "Very, very bad move."

Bill stopped at Ellis's shop first, both to check in on the boy and to see if he knew anything about the situation. Stepping through the door, Bill glanced around the darkened interior of the shop, realizing that, at this hour of the night, Ellis might not even be in. This fear, however, was proved unfounded as a bleary-eyed Ellis stumbled out of a side-room with his hair in a jumble and a shotgun in his hand, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants - presumably his sleepwear.

Holding up his empty hands, Bill said "Whoa there, kid. Who were you expecting to come through this door?" Ellis shrugged and relaxed, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry, Bill," he said in his thick southern drawl. "Old habits die hard." Bill grunted in acknowledgement. He could understand that. Surviving out in the zombie-infested world for as long as they had was bound to give anyone instincts such as this, for the very simple reason that if you didn't have them, you died.

"So, what brings y'all out here t'night at this hour?" Ellis said, setting his shotgun down on a nearby table and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Bill exchanged a glance with Zoey, who had followed him in, and then the old vet looked back at Ellis, and said "We think Francis is in trouble."

Ellis's eyes went wide, and he said "Well shit, man, why didn't'cha say so b'fore?" Walking over to the fridge set against one wall, Ellis popped the door open and hoisted out a six-pack of beer, the glass bottles clinking together as he moved. Flipping a switch that brought to life the old incandescent bulbs in the ceiling with a hum, Ellis pulled out three chairs at the one and only table in the room for his guests before flopping down in the fourth, setting the offering of beer in the middle of the table.

Bill, Louis and Zoey slid into the proffered chairs, but only Louis took one of the beers, popping the cap and taking a hearty swig. Bill leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, and said "Ellis, do you have any idea who could have tried to kill Francis? Does he have any enemies around town?" Taking a generous swallow from his own beer, Ellis set the bottle down on the table with a grim chuckle, and said "Shit, man, he's got more'n I c'n count! He ain't exactly in th' friend-makin' business, y'know."

Bill grunted, and leaned back in his chair, scratching his beard in thought. There was silence in the room for several long moments, and then Zoey said quietly "I… I hope he's alright." Louis gave Zoey a small smile, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Don't worry, Zoey," he said. "Francis is a badass. I don't think anyone in this town could kill him."


	5. Prime Suspect

Francis swallowed, staring down the barrel of the huge handgun leveled at him. The Kevlar lining in his leather jacket could stop smaller-caliber bullets, but a .50 caliber round would probably punch right through it. The men holding his arms were strong - neither one of them were individually as strong as he was, but with each of them holding one arm, Francis didn't stand much of a chance of breaking free. A dozen escape plans flitted through his brain in a second, but all of them came up short.

"Hope you said goodbye to your girlfriend," the man with the gun snarled, pulling the hammer back. "The bitch is going to miss you."

That did it. With a roar, Francis planted a boot on the edge of the table in front of him, shoving with all the might his powerful thighs could muster. The heavy oak slammed into the other man's legs in mid-thigh, causing him to lurch over forward with a grunt of pain and surprise. The Desert Eagle discharged with a report like a thunderclap, and the bullet carved a bloody furrow in Francis's thigh before burying itself in the knee of the burly man to his left.

With something between a groan and a whimper, the man collapsed, clutching at his ruined knee. The large bullet had smashed the joint like a sledgehammer, and Francis guessed that the poor bastard would never walk on that leg again.

Pivoting quick as a snake, Francis delivered a punch with his free hand to the man holding his other arm, feeling the cartilage crunch under his knuckles as the blow connected with the unfortunate man's nose. Blood spurted, and the man's grip loosened enough for Francis to slide his other arm free, and clap his hands over the man's ears. With a strangled cry, the man toppled, and Francis turned in time to see the man with the gun recover and aim another shot at him.

Francis dove forwards as the Desert Eagle boomed again, sliding head-first for the relative safety of the table. The huge bullet struck his jacket at an angle, deflecting off the Kevlar-lined leather and burying itself in the nearby wall in a shower of plaster dust.

Francis slid under the table as the Desert Eagle thundered above him again, blowing a hole the size of a quarter in the oak tabletop and sending an explosion of splinters in all directions. Coming to rest beneath the table, Francis got his legs under him and surged forward, ignoring the twinge of pain from his wounded leg. He barreled into the other man with the force of a runaway train, knocking the pistol from his grasp and sending them both to the floor.

Zoey sat alone on her bed back in the old stone house, a half-empty cup of water dangling from her fingers. Now that she had gotten over the shock of almost being killed and the adrenaline had drained from her system, her mind was working properly again - and working overtime. She had no idea who had tried to kill her and Francis, but she knew a few groups that _hadn't_.

She rattled them off in her mind, counting off on the fingers of her free hand. The options it left didn't please her very much - it was either someone from the government or someone from the Templars, the anti-carrier militia that was sweeping what was left of the country.

With a grunt, Zoey drained the water cup, then set the empty glass down on her dresser and stood up. Snatching the pistol from where it lay on her bedside table, she shoved the weapon into its holster on her hip and strode purposefully out of the room, pausing only to flip off the light switch and throw the room into shadow.

Whoever this guy was, he was good. Planting his hip on Francis's side, the smaller man performed what Francis guessed was a Judo throw, shoving with his leg and - literally - throwing his weight around. With a startled grunt, Francis suddenly found himself on the bottom of the struggling pair, and a blow connected with his jaw. It wasn't nearly as hard as he'd been hit sometimes in his past life, but it was hard enough to hurt, and to let Francis know that this guy, whoever he was, meant it when he hit someone.

Catching the other man's fist as he tried to throw another punch, Francis twisted his wrist sharply, hearing the bones popping as the limb was bent in a way that it wasn't meant to be. The face of the man on top of him went white with pain, and Francis hurled him off and to the side with a roar. Rolling over onto his hands and knees, Francis made a lunge for the dropped Desert Eagle, but a grip like a vice fastened onto his ankle and he looked down to see the his opponent, jaw set against the pain, holding onto Francis's leg with his good hand.

Snarling, Francis slammed his other foot into the man's face, sending him reeling backwards with blood spurting from a broken nose. With his enemy distracted, Francis made it to his target, snatching the large handgun off the floor and whirling around to level it at his target.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. Everyone in the room - Francis, the two downed guards, and their boss - all stopped moving instantly. "I want answers," Francis growled, the gun in his hand rock steady, trained on his target's forehead. "Who the hell are you?"

His target swallowed, then said, voice tight with pain "My name… is Eric Robertson. I work…" he hissed in a breath, cradling his broken wrist, and tried again. "I work for the IPA." Francis raised his brows - the Immune Protection Agency was a national organization with the job of safeguarding the lives and rights of immunes within America.

"Why does the IPA want me dead?" Francis growled, and Eric said through gritted teeth "They're investigating the recent immune murders. You're…" a spike of pain in his wrist caused him to break off, but then he recovered and added "You're their prime suspect. They think you're working with the Templars." Giving Francis a withering glare, he finished "And the way you've acted so far, I'm inclined to agree with them."

Zoey had just reached the bottom of the staircase and was heading into the kitchen to tell Bill her theories, when the old vet intercepted her. "Zoey," he said, motioning towards their small living room, "You should hear this."

As Bill led her in, Zoey noticed Louis already sitting next to their old radio, looking downcast. "What's wrong?" Zoey asked, and Louis wordlessly turned up the radio.

"-…on what charges, they didn't say. This begs the question - does our government need to put a tighter leash on its agencies, or was this done under governmental command? The abductee, one Francis Dixon, was taken away in an unmarked black van earlier tonight without, according to eye-witnesses, due process of law."

Zoey slumped down in the padded armchair nearby, taking a moment to digest the information. Francis had not only been attacked, but had subsequently been _kidnapped_, by some government organization no less! God only knew where he was now… unbidden into Zoey's head flashed images of the big man handcuffed to a chair in some dimly-lit whitewashed room somewhere, beaten and bloodied.

Shaking her head to clear it of the unwanted images, Zoey swallowed against the lump growing in her throat and said "So… what's the plan?" Bill walked over, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and said "The same as it's always been. We never leave anyone behind. We're going to find out where Francis is being held…" Bill's eyes flashed with steely anger, and he finished "And we're going to get him back."

"_Put down the gun!_" The yell shattered the silence like a bell, and Francis looked up to see five men in combat armor standing in and around the doorway, all leveling assault rifles at him. Their vests were stamped with the word 'SECURITY' just above the breastbone, and the IPA logo was emblazoned on their elbow and knee pads.

"Great," Francis muttered, slowly setting down the Desert Eagle and folding his hands behind his head. Instantly, the security team was on him, zip-tying his hands behind his back and hauling him to his feet. Eric spat up at him "Goodbye, Mr. Dixon… we won't be meeting again."

Francis shot back "Pray that we don't, asshole," before the guards hauled him off. They slammed the door behind him, and half-led, half-dragged him down a few dimly-lit, white-walled hallways, finally coming to a halt by a metal door with a slit-window. One of their escorts walked up and undid the bar holding the door in place, then swung it open. Francis was dragged forward, boiling with rage but unable to do anything under the watchful stares of several assault rifles, and tossed forward into the dark interior of the cell. The door slammed shut behind him with an ominous crash and the bolt ratcheted into place, leaving him alone in near-total darkness.

Zoey had just finished lacing up her boots when her attention was caught by something on the radio. Calling for Bill and Louis to be silent, she walked over and turned the volume up.

"-…has been confirmed that two men from the Immune Protection Agency were hospitalized tonight. One man, identified as John Ashborough was shot in the knee, and another named Eric Robertson had a broken wrist and nose. The culprit, Francis Dixon, is now being held in confinement in the IPA headquarters. It is unknown whether the IPA was the particular organization that abducted Francis in the first place, and neither John nor Eric were willing to comment."

"Good old Francis!" Louis said, walking up and leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "I knew that whatever poor bastards took him away were gonna regret it."

"Well," Bill said, slinging his Kalashnikov - he had long ago abandoned his unreliable, fragile M16 in favor of the comparatively indestructible Russian assault rifle - over his shoulder. "Let's go haul his sorry ass outta there."

They were all making for the door when it suddenly opened, revealing the short, broad-shouldered form of Ellis, his baseball cap tugged down at an odd angle atop his mane of curls, a pump-action shotgun slung over one shoulder. "Fellas," the Southerner said, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms over his chest, "I think it's 'bout time I did some explainin'."


	6. An Old Grudge

Francis looked up as the door to his cell grated open, and in walked a wiry, dark-haired man whose sinister looks complemented the well-tailored business suit he wore. Standing in the doorway behind him were two large men wearing body armor and carrying assault rifles.

"Mr. Dixon?" the dark-haired man drawled in a voice as smooth as silk and cold as ice. When Francis said nothing, he turned his head fractionally towards the guards behind him and said "Take him."

Francis was half-led, half-dragged down a series of corridors and slammed with rather more force than was necessary into the only chair in a small square room, his bound hands secured to the chair as an extra security measure. The dark-haired man walked in after him, and Francis heard snaps popping behind him as the other man opened - presumably - a briefcase of some kind.

"You know," came the man's silky, ice-cold voice, and Francis forced himself to not give his captor the pleasure of seeing him squirm, "Before the infection, we had access to all the technology you could imagine. Now, things are… different."

The sound of metal scraping on metal came from behind him, and Francis swallowed, his mind instantly kicking into overdrive and plotting dozens of futile escape attempts.

"Injuring our men was a bad move, Mr. Dixon," the dark-haired man said, walking back around in front of Francis, carrying a pair of glinting surgical scalpels.

Francis wasn't listening. He was too busy straining with every ounce of force in his Herculean muscles against the restraints that held his hands. As his interrogator moved closer, Francis gritted his teeth against the mounting pain in his wrists, and gave one last surge of brutal force as one of the scalpels came down.

The restraints broke. With a roar that verged on animalistic, Francis lunged forward out of his chair, tackling the dark-haired man to the ground and sending his cruel instruments flying. Clearly neither expecting nor trained for this, the interrogator put up little resistance as Francis landed blow after blow, blinded by rage, adrenaline and a primal fight-or-flight impulse.

Francis only stopped swinging when he realized that the man under him wasn't moving any more. Standing up shakily, his breathing ragged, Francis looked down at his handiwork. The dark-haired interrogator lay motionless, nose broken, missing several teeth, jaw bent at an odd angle. One of his eyes was ringed with slowly-swelling bruises, and he was very clearly unconscious if not dead.

Pausing only to spit on the unmoving form, Francis made for the door on legs still unsteady from the high of fear and adrenaline he had been on until a few moments ago. Reaching out to take the handle, he realized that his wrists were ringed with bloody furrows from where the restraints had dug into his flesh, and grimaced.

Taking a hold of the handle, he suddenly remembered the two heavily-armed guards standing right outside, and thought better of it. Taking a few steps back into the windowless room, Francis perused his options. None of them were good.

Zoey blinked. "Explaining? What do you…" Something clicked in her mind, and she lunged forward, taking hold of the collar of the mechanic's shirt and snarling "You know something about what's happened to Francis? Then start talking!"

"Whoa there, girl," Ellis said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Hold on fer a minute. I'll tell ya everythin' I know."

Zoey released her hold of his collar, and Ellis pushed past her into the house. "So, t'be honest, I've known Francis has been alive fer a long time. Since a few days 'fore the first CEDA building 'sploded."

"What!" Louis burst out, taking a step forwards. "And you didn't tell us!"

"He made me promise not to, man!" Ellis said defensively, setting his shotgun on the table and turning to face us. "An' one night over poker - we were both completely smashed, y'see - Francis starts goin' on about how the government was out to get him, 'cause of somethin' he did a'fore the Infection.

"Now, I thought it was just a buncha bullshit like me an' Keith used t' tell each other over drunk poker games, but 'bout a week later this unmarked black van pulled up outside my shop. I thought they jus' needed help with their car, but Francis clamped a hand over my mouth an' dragged me into th' back room. Scared the piss outta me, but not fifteen seconds after he shut the door, I heard people rummagin' around in my shop, and this one guy with a voice that sent chills up my spine said 'He's not here.'"

Zoey sighed, and massaged her nose for a moment. "Yes, Ellis, we know that the government is after Francis. He told me they were."

"Now hold on, girl," Ellis said, holding up a hand for silence. "I ain't done yet. So after that I told Francis t' tell me the whole story. A' first he was a bit reluctant, but opened up after th' third beer or so. Apparently, back before all the zombie shit started, he an' a friend… well, they stole some information from the government. But that's not the real kicker - listen t' this.

"So, this information that they stole… the government already knew 'bout the zombie flu. _They already knew!_ Francis an' this buddy of his were jus' tryin' to get the story out so that everyone could be prepared if the virus ever got out. But no one took 'em seriously, and this big-shot FBI agent by the name'a John Carver followed the evidence trail right to the source. Francis's 'buddy' shoveled all the blame onto Francis and bolted."

Zoey sank down into a nearby chair, eyes going wide. "You… you mean… the Infection could have been prepared for… maybe even _prevented_… if… if…" Fury was churning in her gut, clogging her throat and blocking her speech.

Ellis nodded. "You got it, girl. But jus' wait, it gets better. This John Carver guy slapped Francis in cuffs and dropped him off at the police station. He was to be transferred to some maximum-security prison an' executed for _treason_. But then the outbreak hit, an' pretty soon all the cops were zombies. Francis busted outta there and found ya'll.

"And that shoulda been the end of it. But John Carver survived the infection, an' heard that Francis was still alive. All this 'evidence' th' government has linkin' Francis to these Templar murders - it's all bullshit! John Carver made it all up an' fed it to the IPA to get them on his trail!"

Francis's heart skipped a beat when the door lock clicked, and he took a position against the doorframe, hoping that the eyes of whoever walked in would be drawn to the interrogator lying sprawled and broken on the floor.

His hope proved true, as in walked one of the armored guards who stopped as if poleaxed when he took in the sight that met his eyes. Surreptitiously closing the door, Francis walked up and, in one fluid motion, grabbed the man by the back of the head and shoved, bringing his leg back and around in a sweep-kick that took the man's left leg right out from under him.

Unprepared and overbalanced, the guard toppled forward like a felled tree, and Francis helped him along the way, slamming his head face-first into the floor. His helmet absorbed most of the blow, but the guard was still stunned, and Francis grabbed his dropped assault rifle and stood up triumphantly.

Slowly rolling onto his back and groaning, the guard put a hand to his head - which probably ached like hell - and said "Easy, man… easy. Don't do something we'll both regret."

"Shut up, asshole," Francis snarled, not in a mood for small-talk. "Just tell me where the hell your boss is."

The guard, clearly confused, replied "You've already been in Mr. Robertson's office, sir."

With a growl of frustration, Francis stepped forward and grabbed the guard's collar with one hand, pressing the barrel of the rifle against the side of his head. "Not him, you dumbass; he clearly didn't know what was really going on." Leaning even closer to the now-trembling guard, Francis said slowly, enunciating each word, "_Where is John Carver?_"

The guard blinked. "Wha-… what? Who the hell's John Carver?"

Francis paused, taking a step backwards and frowning. The man was scared enough not to lie, so… he didn't know? _That makes sense,_ Francis thought sullenly. _No one here probably knows who's really running the show._

"Come on, break time's over!" Bill yelled from the driver seat of his jeep, suiting action to words and popping his door open. Ellis, in the shotgun seat, followed suit with a battle whoop, racking the slide on his shotgun and giving the dashboard a loving pat before hopping down out of the vehicle. Louis and Zoey, sitting in the back, followed more slowly, checking the load on their rifles.

"Let's do this quick and quiet, people. Weapons cold until I say otherwise, melee takedowns only unless shit really hits the fan. We get in, find Francis and get the hell out. Understood?" Everyone else nodded, and Bill said "Alright then. Let's do this!"

Francis was considering whether or not to attempt an escape on his own, when a klaxon slashed through the silence like a knife. He had knocked the guard out with a blow from the butt of his gun, and piled him in the corner with the unwitting interrogator, and the last thing he wanted was for someone more prepared than that unfortunate guard to stumble in here and find those bodies with him standing over them.

However, there was the issue of the half-dozen more guards scattered around the building, armed with assault rifles. Francis's Kevlar coat would protect him from anything save a point-blank round, but one sleeve of it had been torn off long ago by a particularly determined zombie, and there was nothing protecting his head, so if a guard decided to use his head instead of just his gun, Francis would most likely end up dead.

However, the klaxon meant that the base was under attack, which could provide the perfect distraction for slipping out unnoticed. On the other hand, maybe the attackers were here to rescue him, in which case slipping out the back would be probably the worst thing he could do.

With a sigh, Francis started forward, taking a hold of the handle just as a bullet punched through the door, whizzing by him and missing his head by an inch.

"Shit!" Francis yelled, diving to the side as several more bullets pierced the door, slapping into the back wall of the room and blasting clouds of concrete dust out of it. Taking shelter in the doorframe, Francis listened carefully as the gunfire died. His heart lurched as he heard Zoey's voice, saying "Well, this went to hell quickly. Ellis, this was supposed to be a quiet operation!"

Standing up, Francis grabbed the door and swung it open, resting his purloined assault rifle on his shoulder and swaggering out to greet his guests. Zoey and Ellis stood together in the hallway, both of them facing away from him and in the direction of a group of dead guards that littered the hallway past them. "Well," Francis said, coming to a stop behind them and grinning. "Looks like you've been busy."


	7. Breakout

Zoey whirled, eyes alight with something between relief and fury. "Francis! You… you…" She seemed to be at a loss for words. Taking two large strides forward, she socked Francis across the jaw, staggering the huge man back a step. "Don't. You. Ever. Go traipsing off alone to fight government agents and… and God knows what else without me again!"

Having said this, she seemed to deflate a little, tears sparkling in her eyes. Her voice dropping to barely over a whisper, she said "You… you could have been killed." Practically tackling Francis, she enveloped the big man in a crushing hug, burying her face in his chest and crying. Her voice muffled by his leather jacket, she said "I can't lose you again!"

Smiling wryly and fingering his jaw where Zoey had slugged him, Francis rubbed a reassuring hand over her back, and said "Easy, babe. Easy. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Walking up to the entangled pair and grinning, Ellis said "I knew y'could handle yerself. You never seemed th' type to need rescuin'."

Francis barked a laugh, and said "Much as I appreciate the sentiment, rest assured that I wouldn't have gotten far without you. Those assholes over there," he motioned to the dead bodies lying nearby, "Were watching my cell. They'd probably have killed me if I tried to make a break for it, so I settled on beating the shit out of their interrogator and one guard who came in to investigate."

"Well, sounds like you had yerself a real good time!" Ellis said, chuckling and absently reloading his shotgun.

"Hah! Yeah, it was one hell of a party!" Francis replied, idly stroking Zoey's hair. "At least, 'til I remembered how much I hate parties. After that, everyone started trying to kill me and… well, you know how that goes."

Rudely interrupting the joking pair, the walkie-talkie clipped to Zoey's belt started whining insistently. Snatching it up, Zoey took a step away from Francis, wiped her eyes and took a moment to collect herself, then hit the 'talk' button.

"Someone tell me what the hell's going on over there!" came Bill's voice, annoyed and impatient, from the miniature radio.

"We found Francis!" Zoey said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. "He's okay!"

Whatever Bill was about to say, however, was lost forever as a harsh, male voice blared over speakers in the roof "Francis Dixon is loose, and reports are coming in of an unknown number of additional hostiles in the building! All others are to be terminated, but Dixon is to be taken alive! I don't care what you have to do, just get that son of a bitch back in his fucking cell!"

"Well, shit," Francis said, looking up at the ceiling and whistling in appreciation. "Guess I really pissed him off. Ol' Johnny Boy never used to swear like that."

"You mean," Zoey said, glancing up at the speakers then back down at Francis, "_That_ was John Carver? He's _here_!"

Francis nodded, and replied "Yeppers. That was old Tons o' Fun himself. I'd stroll right over and have a little friendly chat with him - by which I mean shove my shotgun barrel up his ass and pull the trigger - but he's probably surrounded by his usual entourage of heavily-armed, well-trained bodyguards."

-O-

Bill crouched behind an overturned vending machine, jamming a new clip into his Kalashnikov as bullets whistled past him, slapping into the makeshift cover with alarming frequency.

_Spang! Spang! Sp-sp-spang!_

Louis stood in the shelter of a nearby wall, leaning around the corner occasionally to check on their foes. "Shit, man, we gotta get outta here!" he said, throwing a panicked glance at Bill.

Raising the walkie-talkie to his mouth, Bill shouted "I don't know what you ladies are doing down there, but you'd better get your sorry asses up here yesterday! We're under fire from ten plus unidentified hostiles in the rear foyer, and we need to get the hell out of Dodge!"

"Roger that, old man," came Francis's gruff baritone rumble, punctuated by hard breaths as the ex-biker ran. "On our way. Just try not to die before we get there."

-O-

Not bothering with niceties such as handles, Francis simply put his shoulder down and rammed into a door that blocked their path, smashing it open and hardly even breaking stride. His shoulder ached, but five seconds less time they spent getting to Bill was five seconds less he'd have to spend fighting off guards and SWAT teams and whatever else Carver decided to throw at him.

He could hear gunfire now, short staccato bursts of muffled thumps coming from dead ahead of him. Looking over as Ellis let out a short whistle, Francis caught the shotgun that the younger man threw for him, giving the southerner a grin of thanks and racking the slide as the gunfire drew louder.

-O-

Louis barely restrained a whoop of joy as Francis plowed through a set of double doors behind them, carrying a pump-action shotgun in his thick-fingered hands. Unhooking a pipe bomb from his belt - a memoir from their time in Infected country - he lit the fuse with a cigarette lighter he'd scavenged years ago for just such a purpose, and chucked the bomb down the hall.

A few seconds afterwards, there came a thunderous explosion, and a rain of dust, plaster and ceiling tiles obscured the hallway. "Come on!" Louis yelled, charging for the back door with the rest of the group hot on his heels, bullets fired blindly by their enemies down the hall punching holes in the walls and floor around them.

-O-

It was only when they got outside and all piled into Bill's waiting jeep that Francis let himself relax. As the vehicle roared to life and pulled out into the street, he slid closer to Zoey on the padded seat, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, and he took a long moment to breathe in the welcome scent of her hair. How he had missed that smell during the long years they had been apart… the feel of her smooth skin against his fingers, the taste of her lips, the sparkle in those beautiful green eyes when-…

"Francis, you're staring." Zoey's voice broke him from his reverie, and he blinked a few times before noticing that he was, in fact, staring. At Zoey, no less. Her mouth had twisted up into an amused smile, and in her eyes was that familiar sparkle.

Reaching up, Francis trailed his fingers lightly along her cheek, relishing the feel of her skin, the warmth of her smooth flesh beneath his fingertips. She reached up and took a hold of his hand, squeezing it gently, those beautiful eyes glimmering like fathomless emerald pools. He squeezed back, his heart fluttering in his chest.

Then the jeep jostled violently, throwing them both around a bit. "Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds," came Bill's scathing voice from the front seat, "But we've got company."

Struggling to his feet and massaging his jaw where he'd slammed into the opposite seat, Francis let out a string of virulent curses, recovering his shotgun from where it had fallen. Sating those appetites of his that had so long gone hungry would just have to wait until they got back to safety… wherever 'safety' was in this mad, broken world.

-O-

"Raptor Echo to Raptor Delta, approaching target! Four tangos fleeing in a green-and-brown '98 Jeep, northbound on West Main, over."

"Roger that, Raptor Echo. What is your ETA to the target? Over."

"ETA twenty seconds, over."

"Roger that. Hammerhead says weapons hot, over.

"Roger, Raptor Delta. Over and out."

Sergeant Roberts lowered his hand from the radio mounted on his helmet, and turned to the rest of his team, strapped into their seats in the belly of the huge armored monster christened Raptor Echo.

"Alright people, this is it!" he bellowed over the roar of the vehicle, taking hold of a strap on the adjacent wall as the vehicle jostled. "We've got four tangos fleeing the scene of a crime! Breaking and entering, assault, resisting arrest, murder… the works. We are weapons hot and go for engagement. Let's do this plain and simple, people. By the book."

"Yes, sergeant!" came the predictable chorus from his men, and Roberts continued.

"These people are armed and extremely dangerous. Take no chances when dealing with them, and remember - they've killed our people. It's time we made the bastards pay."

-O-

"Holy shit, Bill, where the hell did you get RPGs!" Francis yelled over the Jeep's growling engine, hefting the long metal tube and grinning.

"I have ways," Bill said from the front seat, swerving to avoid a large pothole in the road.

Francis felt a thrill of excitement rush through him as he turned back to face the rear, which quickly turned to ice-cold fear gnawing at his spine as not one but two APCs swerved into the road behind them from opposite directions. Vulcan miniguns hung from the pintol-mounts atop the huge military vehicles, silent and menacing.

"Shit," Zoey breathed from beside him, taking a knee and raising her RPG launcher to her shoulder and putting her eye to the sight. The barrel wavered as her hands shook, and Francis briefly squeezed her shoulder before raising his RPG to firing height as well, hovering the sight over the vehicle on the right.

"I'll take right, you take left," he said, and Zoey wordlessly complied, shifting her aim. The hatch on Francis's target popped open and a man in body armor squeezed his way halfway out, taking a hold of the minigun. The eight-barreled weapon started spinning, revving to life, and Francis swallowed.

Taking a firmer hold of his lethal weapon with sweaty hands, Francis took one last deep, calming breath, and pulled the trigger.


	8. Release

**Hey ya'll, Jalos here. So, I was originally unsure of whether to include lemon in this story, but enough people have made comments about 'Francis x Zoey action' or something along those lines that I've decided to bite the bullet and do it. That being said, this is my first time **_**ever**_** writing anything like this, and I'm a little - okay, **_**very**_** - nervous about what ya'll will think of it. Review and let me what you think, pretty please!**

-O-

Francis's RPG went wide of the mark, scorching the air as it hissed past his target and detonated on the road behind it in a bloom of scarlet fire, causing the APC to lurch forward as it was hit by the shockwave.

Zoey's, on the other hand, was dead-on. The lethal projectile buried itself in its target's hull, exploding in a crimson flash that tore the armored vehicle apart and sent its burning wreckage spewing in all directions.

"Nice shot!" Francis said, grinning down at Zoey, who grinned back with something between exhilaration and terror etched on her features. Francis was reaching for another RPG round when the minigun on the surviving APC opened up on them.

One of the huge weapon's equally huge bullets struck Francis in the left shoulder, the grazing blow not penetrating his armored jacket. The force of the bullet, however, still wrenched his shoulder out of joint, spun him around and threw him against the cab of the jeep, the RPG launcher tumbling from his fingers and out onto the road, swiftly sucked away as the jeep rocketed on.

Groaning, stunned and half-blind from pain, stars wheeling in his vision and with one hell of a headache from where he had slammed into the jeep's cab, Francis rolled over onto his stomach, slowly pushing himself up with his one good arm. His shoulder throbbed, his left arm dangling limp and useless at his side.

"Francis!" Zoey screamed over the roar of the jeep's engine and the howl of the minigun firing on them, crouched behind the relative protection of the jeep's railing, her face gone white with panic, unable to come to Francis's aid due to the storm of lead pelting the jeep all around them.

"Goddamn it, sonofabitch motherfucker…" Francis snarled under his breath, crawling slowly towards the box that held spare RPG rounds. He had almost reached it when a ricochet slammed into the box, sending it tumbling and spilling its contents out across the bed of the jeep, where they started rolling for the back edge.

With a yell, Francis leapt after them, sliding painfully across the metal bed of the jeep and snatching up the last round just before it bounced off of the edge. Scurrying back out of the open as fast as his three good limbs would take him, he slumped down next to Zoey, wordlessly handing her the round.

She took it, looking a little stunned, and fed it into the muzzle of the launcher tube. "Can you distract them?" she said, having to yell over the noise even a mere few feet away as she was. With a grimace of pain and resignation, Francis nodded. Then he stood up, set his jaw, and took a running leap off the back of the jeep.

Time seemed to slow down. The minigun tracked to follow this new quarry, and Zoey leapt to her feet, staring in disbelief as Francis sailed through the air. Then, realizing that he had given her exactly the chance she needed, she took aim with the RPG. She only had one chance, and she'd be damned if she was going to botch it.

-O-

As he sailed through the air, the principle thought going through Francis's head was _Well, this has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done._

Then he hit the ground, and all thought was gone as white-hot agony lanced through him as he bounced and rolled, jostling his dislocated arm. He opened his mouth to scream, but merely choked on dust thrown up by the jeep's wheels, and clenched his jaw, pulling his legs and good arm in towards his body in a desperate attempt to shield himself.

When Francis came to his senses again, he was lying face-up in the road, staring upwards at the star-dotted expanse of midnight sky above him. The crackling of flames was the only sound that could be heard, and he blinked a few times, then groaned as the pain in his brutalized shoulder made itself known.

Sitting up was a Herculean effort, as every part of his body seemed bruised or scraped, but he clenched his jaw and powered through it. Sitting in the middle of the darkened road, lit only by the burning wrecks of the two APCs - Francis almost cheered as he saw that there were, in fact, two wrecks - and empty save for himself and the charred corpses within the flaming debris.

Then a pair of blinding headlights slashed through the darkness, and Bill's jeep roared up and ground to a halt no more than ten yards from him. Before it had even finished moving, Zoey vaulted out of the back and came towards him at a dead run, her emerald eyes sparkling with fear and worry.

Sliding to a halt and instantly dropping to her knees beside Francis, she wrapped an arm around his back and slowly helped him to his feet. "Zoey-…" he started to say, but she silenced him by cupping his head in her hands and pulling him in for a kiss.

Momentarily surprised, Francis quickly got used to the idea as he engulfed her with his good arm, pulling her in closer to him, pressing her body against his. Lost in the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body, he neither knew nor cared if the others were watching. Their pent-up emotions, held in check for so long, had reached the breaking point, and Francis found himself fervently wishing that they were back in his house - or her house, or a _prison cell_ for all he cared - so that they could get out of these damn encumbering clothes and he could make fervent love to her until dawn, as he'd pictured in his head so many times during their long time apart.

But, their moment of passion and longing was cut rudely short as Bill pounded on the horn a few times, jarring them both back to their senses. Unwilling to break apart so soon, Francis reached up and trailed a finger down Zoey's cheek, feeling the smooth flesh burning with passion. Her eyes were huge and smoldering, and Francis felt his jeans suddenly shrink a few sizes. "Later," she whispered, her breath raising goosebumps on his skin, and he grinned, breathing back "I'm holding you to that, babe."

-O-

"This is gonna hurt like hell, son," Bill warned, taking a firm hold of Francis's left shoulder.

Grimacing and taking a hold of Zoey's hand, Francis growled "Just do it, old man. I ain't made of glass."

Shrugging, Bill leaned on the injured appendage with practiced ease. The joint snapped back into place with an audible 'snap', and Francis's face went white. Zoey winced as his grip became crushing, but the big biker made no sound other than a low hissing through his teeth.

"My trooper," Zoey murmured, leaning in and trailing kisses as light as a butterfly's wing-beats along Francis's cheek and neck.

"Damn right," Francis said, although his voice was taut and clipped from pain. Experimentally rolling his shoulder, Francis nodded approvingly and said "Nice work, Grandpa. You gotta show me how to do that some time when I visit you at the nursing home."

"Keep it up, and I'll show you a few other things I know how to do," Bill growled dangerously, walking out of the room.

They had returned to Zoey, Bill and Louis's house for an impromptu first-aid session, and Louis now stood in the back room, listening to the radio for any news. Francis only caught snippets of it, but what he heard, he didn't like.

"The escapee, Francis Dixon, is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. He has killed several government agents, and should anyone see him they are to call…"

Leaning his head back into the padding of the chair as Zoey oozed into his lap, Francis growled "Goddamn you, John Carver," to no one in particular, and wrapped a protective arm around Zoey's shoulders, pulling her against him. Looking down at her and smiling, he murmured "I missed you so much, Zo… I thought of you almost every night while I was on the run."

Laying her head on his powerful chest, Zoey replied "I missed you too, you big lout… I thought you were dead. I thought I was never going to see you again, never-…"

She broke off, and Francis suddenly realized that she was crying. Pulling her into a hug, Francis planted a kiss in her hair, and whispered "Shh… it's all right. I'm here. I'm here, Zo. I ain't goin' anywhere."

Looking up at him, her eyes glimmering with mischief and desire, she purred "Oh, yes you are. You're going up to my bedroom. With me. Right now."

Grinning, Francis stood up from the chair and, injuries be damned, hoisted Zoey into the air with him, carrying her bridal-style. "Your wish is my command, beautiful," he said, and started up the stairs, careful not to bump his precious cargo on either the wall or the banister.

-O-

Kicking the thick oak door shut behind him, Francis laid Zoey down on the room's only bed, following her down and planting a kiss on her lips. As their lips met and tongues danced, Francis reached down and started undoing the buttons on the front of Zoey's shirt.

Tossing the garment away, he leaned down, leaving a trail of kisses along her neck and shoulder. Leaning her head back, Zoey let out a small moan, taking a hold of Francis's jacket and sliding it down up over his shoulders as he raised his arms to help her along the way. Stripping out of his tank-top and revealing the hard, thickly-muscled and tattoo-inscribed torso beneath, he took a moment to drink in the sight of Zoey on the bed before him, dressed only in her jeans and a bra.

Kicking off his boots and leaning in as Zoey did the same, Francis ran his hands down her sides in a tender caress, feeling her flesh smolder beneath his fingers. Closing his eyes and losing himself in her sweet scent, he felt her smooth, dextrous fingers slide down his back, feeling every ridge and valley of muscle carved into his flesh before reaching his waist.

Wrapping his arms around her, Francis hefted Zoey into the air, eliciting a startled half-squeak, half-giggle from her. Pinning her against a wall, he reached down, unclasping his jeans and letting them fall around his ankles. Stepping out of them, he relieved Zoey of her pants, leaning in for a long kiss, tasting her, relishing in every aspect of her.

For them, this was much more than simple sex. Both of them knew very well that they walked the razor's edge, and at any moment they could slip and fall. With the IPA, the police and probably a few dozen local yahoos with guns on their tail, they had to find evidence to clear Francis's name and implicate John Carver, or they were all dead. With the veritable sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, they desperately clutched whatever moments together they could scrounge, drinking in each other's presence as a desert wanderer drinks water where he can find it.

Before long, they were back on the bed, bereft of their last vestiges of clothing. Pausing briefly, Francis stared down into Zoey's eyes, chestnut meeting emerald in a long moment of unspoken words, unsaid love. Then Zoey reached up, wrapping her arms around Francis's neck and pulling herself up until she could whisper in his ear "Do it." The simple two syllables burned with lust, and if there was any hesitation left within Francis, they seared it out of him.

Zoey let out a gasp as he entered her, clutching him tightly as if afraid he might slip away. Francis returned the sentiment, enveloping her slim form in his powerful arms as he slid into her, grunting with each thrust. Their bare flesh glistened with sweat, and Zoey pulled back long enough to engulf Francis's lips with hers, his mouth muffling her moans.

Turning around, Francis lay back on the bed with Zoey atop him, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, then slowly sliding it down her neck, across her shoulder and onto her side, reveling in the feel of her skin. She grinned into their kiss, a grin which quickly turned into whimper of pleasure as their rhythm intensified.

-O-

From his padded armchair, Louis looked up at the ceiling, cocking an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Do you… hear something?" he said, looking around. He'd caught a muffled hint of sound from what sounded like one of the upstairs bedrooms. It sounded almost like… wood creaking.

Bill cast a glance up at the ceiling, a knowing look tinged with amusement and exasperation, then returned his eyes to the newspaper he was reading, and said "No, Louis. Probably nothing."

"Yeah, you're right," Louis said, switching channels on the radio, trying to find some half-decent music.


	9. The News

The oak table shook, rattling glasses and dinnerware, as John Carver slammed his palms down onto it. A tall man, built wiry and lean, he bore a narrow face with hard, angular features, accented by a hawk nose and angular brows. His slate-grey eyes glinted as he raked the room with a baleful glare, and he growled "How the hell did we let this happen?"

He did not raise his voice, but many of those present flinched from the undercurrent of rage boiling beneath the words.

"Not one, not two, but _four_ wanted fugitives are now on the loose in this town, having destroyed two APCs and killed at least a dozen men. We have no idea where they are, and all because of your failure to hold Francis Dixon in check."

One of the other men seated around the table, a portly, middle-aged man in a well-tailored business suit, cleared his throat and said "Mr. Carver, this was not a textbook operation, by any stretch of the imagination. We had no warning, no idea that a raid was taking place until half our garrison was already dead. Why not release this whole thing to the-…" "_No._" John cut him off, slicing his hand through the air. "We can't let even a whiff of this get out. People will start asking questions - 'why was he apprehended in the first place,' 'why wasn't he given a trial?' Questions we can't answer without breaching national security."

Taking a deep breath and sitting back down in his chair, he finished "No. This stays with us. I want an infiltration team locked and loaded in no more than two hours. We're going to find these bastards."

Leaning forward dangerously and jabbing a finger into the tabletop, he added "And then we're going to kill them."

-O-

Francis blinked his eyes open slowly, looking up at the oak beams supporting the ceiling. Smiling blearily as he remembered the events of the previous night, he looked down at the sleeping form cuddling against him, and brushed a lock of dark hair out of Zoey's face.

Glancing over at the window, he caught sight of the late-morning light spilling in through the slats in the shutters, and mentally cursed himself for sleeping in. Every second he stayed here put the others - and especially Zoey - in grave danger.

"Hey," Francis said softly, running a tender hand down Zoey's back. "Rise and shine, beautiful."

Blinking sleep from her eyes, Zoey smiled groggily up at him, her eyes sparkling. "Good morning," she murmured, voice slurred with sleep.

"C'mere," Francis said, and Zoey straightened, leaning forward to steal a kiss from her bedmate. Trailing a hand up her back, Francis pulled her in closer, feeling a stirring between his legs as her warm flesh pressed against his.

Pulling away, Zoey grinned, sensing his arousal. Her eyes gleaming with mischief, she moved until she was straddling him, and ran a hand down his bare chest. Francis's breath hitched, and he was sure his eyes must have been positively smoldering.

Leaning down, Zoey murmured in his ear, voice husky and damned alluring, "I'm sure Louis and Bill can wait a few more minutes for us…"

-O-

"Well, look who's up!" Louis said, looking up from the newspaper he was reading as Francis and Zoey trooped into the kitchen, holding hands. The simple, romantic gesture attracted Louis's attention, and he snickered, earning a light punch in the shoulder from Francis's free hand.

Then something on the newspaper caught Francis's eye, and he snatched it away from Louis, eliciting a startled 'Hey!' from the other man. Francis's eyes hardened as he read, his jaw tensing and his grip on Zoey's hand tightening.

"What is it?" Zoey asked, standing on her toes to try and see what the much taller man was reading.

Slapping the paper down on the table, Francis jabbed a finger at one of the articles on the front page. It sported a large photograph of the IPA headquarters, John Carver standing before it and talking to what looked like a SWAT team. The caption read 'Attack on IPA HQ'.

"What's the big deal?" Zoey said, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I mean, wasn't it practically guaranteed that someone was going to write a story about that?"

Francis shook his head, and growled "It's what's written in the article. Says here that John Carver said 'We don't know who attacked the IPA or why, but we will find them, and we will deal justice to them.' Son of a bitch is trying to cover this up, trying to hide what's really going on from the town. And if he's covering his ass here, odds are he'll have covered it everywhere else, which is gonna make us finding any evidence against him a lot harder."

Zoey's face fell, and she simply said "Oh."

-O-

The hotel foyer was lavishly adorned in a style reminiscent of Las Vegas casinos, with a high ceiling painted in an elaborate pattern of swirling colors, a plush carpet, and gold filigree almost everywhere you looked. The extravagantly colored ceiling was supported by pillars of marbled stone, and the room was lit by elaborate gold chandeliers, each one of which was probably worth about as much as a small car.

Sitting on a luxuriously cushioned sofa, feet propped up on a marble-top coffee table, was a man in an expertly-tailored white suit. He held a glass goblet of thick, red wine in one hand and a newspaper in the other, his elegantly sweeping brows narrowing as he read. His black hair was slicked back and combed to perfection, and his thin lips were pressed together in concern. The only flaw on his otherwise perfect countenance was a small scar on his cheek, but it only seemed to accent the man's overall appearance.

Walking up from behind him came a dark-skinned woman, dressed in an elegant three-piece business suit, the gray coat, vest and pants set off but somehow complemented by a bright purple shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail behind her head, and her eyes flashed from behind a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses.

"See something interesting?" she said, leaning her arms on the back of the couch just behind the man's shoulders, her eyes scanning the paper in his hands.

"Just this article about something going on in some refugee town in the desert," the man drawled, his voice smooth and slick. "Says here that the IPA was attacked. They don't say by who."

"The IPA?" the dark-skinned woman scoffed, a smirk tugging up at her mouth. "I didn't think anyone would want to attack them, except maybe the Templars. But if it was the Templars, it would be rather obvious, and they would certainly say so."

The man in white nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Something about this rubs me the wrong way." Looking up, he favored the woman with a dazzling smile, and said "How would you like to be a part of the biggest story in the year?"

Grinning back, the woman planted a quick kiss on her companion's neck and purred "I'd like that very much, Nick."


	10. Parallel Investigations

Atlantic flight 607 from Las Vegas landed on what passed for an airstrip in the refugee town, little more than a strip of bare, relatively flat desert about as wide as a football field and several times as long. The airport was a large, squat building with imposing stone walls and metal bars in the windows, clearly built to withstand attacks by roving packs of infected back during the days when this town was often under siege by the living dead.

The plane was relatively private, much smaller than a 747 but still technically a commercial liner. Barely half-full, it housed mostly tourists, reporters and those among the cripplingly poor who had taken the free ticket out to one of the 'resettlement projects' offered by the government. Nick had ridden first-class, of course, in the mostly-empty forward section of the plane. That suited him just fine, as he'd always been a fan of privacy.

Stepping down off of the exit stairs, Nick grimaced at the cloud of sand kicked up by the plane's engines, doing his best to shield his face with his briefcase. Walking up to stand beside him, Rochelle seemed less perturbed by the flying grains, her attention occupied with the grim, uninviting airport.

Staring around from behind the large lenses of his imposing, very expensive designer sunglasses, Nick drawled "What a pisshole." When his companion snorted, he added "Seriously. This place is worse than Savannah."

"It'll be good for you," Rochelle said, smiling and placing a hand on Nick's arm. "You've been spending too much time cooped up in that gambling resort. You need some time on your feet, outdoors."

"Ugh," Nick grunted as they started off towards the looming entryway into the airport proper. "I knew coming out here was a bad idea."

-O-

"What the hell do you mean you're leaving?" Bill asked incredulously, folding his arms over his chest and glaring out at Francis from under his bushy grey brows.

The big biker mirrored the older man's gesture, and growled "I mean I'm leaving, Grandpa. The longer I stay here, the more danger I put you in. It's me that Carver wants - I know you're technically fugitives too now, but given a choice between going after me or you guys, I can easily guess which one he'd pick." Leaning in as if he hadn't made his point obvious enough already, Francis added "Me."

Slicing his hand through the air in a gesture of negation, Bill said "Hell no. I learned the hard way during the infection - we need to stick together to survive. You go haring off on your own, Carver and his goons'll have you dried and pinned in a drawer in a week."

Letting out a wordless snarl of exasperation, Francis turned and slammed his gloved fist into the wall. "Damn it, Bill!" he snarled, turning a furious glare on the older man. "I'm not putting you three in danger for my sake! They're bound to find me eventually, and if I stay here, you have no idea the kind of hell they'd bring down on you!"

Taking a step forward, Bill put a hand on Francis's leather-garbed shoulder and said, very softly, "Son, you sacrificed yourself for us back at the farmhouse in Alleghany. I think it's about time we returned the favor."

Francis deflated at that, letting out a long breath and turning away, shoulders slumping. After a long moment of silence, he said "Thanks, Bill."

"Any time, son," the 'Nam vet replied.

-O-

"Who have we got?" The voice was hard, clipped, and bored, a shade deeper than usual and sounding utterly at ease, as if its possessor had done this a hundred times before. Cool, competent eyes the color of grey slate swept over the aggregation of miserable, disheveled humanity before them, and a well-used cigarette stub was spat from between thin lips, then crushed under a knee-high leather jackboot.

"Nothing much, Captain," said the man standing next to him, a full foot shorter than his commander. "Just these seven." Both were dressed in the livery of the Guardians - the militaristic branch of the IPA, tasked with hunting down suspected Templars and other such people - but while the shorter one was slightly rounded at the middle and looking as if he'd slept in his clothes, the taller commander was built lean and powerful, his body whipcord-taut and his uniform without a wrinkle or stain in sight. The name badge sowed onto his uniform shirt read "Captain J. Anders."

Turning his head to stare down at his subordinate, Anders said "And what is this sorry lot in for, Sergeant Myerson?"

Myerson gesticulated with his pen, pointing to each one in turn as he ran down the list. "Vagrancy, trespassing, vandalism, more trespassing, assault, more vandalism, and assault with a deadly weapon."

Anders snorted derisively, and crossed his arms over his chest. His laconic voice took on a razor edge, and he said "Isn't this the kind of thing we have a police force for?"

Myerson squirmed a little, and said "Yes, Captain. And ordinarily they'd be the ones cleaning up this mess, not us. But the police are severely understaffed since that shitstorm at the IPA HQ, and what's left are out sweeping the streets for whoever blew up the place."

"And why aren't _we_ the ones sweeping the streets?" Anders snarled, all hints of boredom gone from his voice, now as cold and hard as a knife.

"Because, sir," Myerson said, eyes narrowing in irritation, "The Director says we need a federal directive before we can organize an S&D. Says that if we go around kicking in doors without one, things here will blow up even worse, and the Agency will get in all kinds of legal trouble."

Letting out a wordless growl and fishing in his pocket for another cigarette, Anders muttered "Take them away."

-O-

Francis's heart almost stopped when there came a knock at the door, firm and authoritative. Bill put a hand to his lips and shooed the biker into the other room, and went to open the door himself.

Ducking into a side room, Francis slid around the doorframe and pressed his back to the wall, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. His heart hammered in his chest, and his fingers twitched at his side where his revolver should have been. It had, however, been confiscated by the IPA upon his arrest, and he hadn't deemed it worthy of making a five-minute detour to retrieve it while they were escaping due to the number of people trying to kill them.

Instead, he just curled both hands into fists as the door clicked open, to keep them from doing anything they shouldn't. He could hear Bill saying "Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"

Then there came a tired and very bored voice, flat and monotonous, as if reciting from memory. "We're looking for this man and three unknown accomplices, one black, one female and one old - say, about your age, actually. The one we know is named Francis Dixon, six-five, brown eyes, wears a leather jacket with one sleeve missing. Have you seen him or any of the other three anywhere within the last two days?"

Francis's breath caught. _Oh shit, ohhhh shit… _There came a pause, as if Bill was thinking, and then the old 'Nam vet said "No, sir. But if one of 'em is really my age, he can't have done much. I have trouble getting up the stairs to my bedroom each night!"

There came a chuckle, and then the policeman's voice - now tinged with amusement - saying "Thank you, sir. Have a good day." The door clicked shut, and Francis let out the breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"All clear!" Bill said as the growl of the police cruiser's engines started up outside, and Francis came out of hiding, heart still thudding in his chest. Then Zoey came pounding down the stairs, eyes wide, and stopped to let out a sigh when she saw both Francis and Bill still present and unharmed. She looked from the face of one to the other, and asked "What happened?"

-O-

"Well, not a day into this and you've already found something interesting," Nick drawled, reclining in the overstuffed chair in their hotel room. Lavish, they had discovered, was a relative term - the most expensive hotel in town was built of stone , with simple wood ceilings and panel floors disguised by area rugs. It actually had some nice furniture, shipped in from out-of-state, and hot water, thank God, but it was far from the five-star hotels that the con man was used to staying at.

"And get this," Rochelle said, displaying the morning's paper as proudly as a fisherman would display the catch of the day. "It says here that the Guardians, the military branch of the IPA, have been tasked with taking up police duties because they need a federal permit to perform searches of people's houses. But here's the real juicy part - according to the new federal laws established since the infection, any government agency has the right to perform searches of civilian homes in an infected area, and technically, this desert is still an infected area!"

Nick sat in silence for a moment, swirling the rose-colored liquid about in the glass goblet he held between his fingers. Then he raised a slim, angular eyebrow in an invitation to continue, and Rochelle said "Don't you see? By law, they _could_ be searching people's homes! The law was meant to help find infected people hiding in their homes, but it technically applies! There's no way whoever is running the IPA is dumb enough to not know that!"

Nick's eyes lit, and he sat down the goblet he held. Leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, he said "So that means…"

"That the director of the IPA _doesn't want_ the Guardians to search," Rochelle finished for him, "Because he's afraid of what they might find! It says here the police haven't found anything yet, which is probably just what he wanted! He's probably using the police as a coverup for some secret investigation of his own!"

Nick grinned in triumph, but then the light went out of his eyes and his expression sobered. Glancing over at his companion from under lowered brows, he said "You know, this is a lot of speculation from a fairly small amount of evidence… the guy could just be incompetent, you never know."

Rochelle shrugged, continuing flipping through newspapers. Then she smirked up at him, and purred "Call it woman's intuition."


	11. Evidence

**Hey everyone! Jalos here. Oh, man, I am sooo sorry about keeping you all in suspense with this story! Writer's block decided to be a persistent little bastard and take up residence in my brain, not to mention the fact that I've been busy acting in a play, getting ready for college and other various real-life concerns.**

**Well, here it is, at long last. The next chapter of Outcasts. Hope ya'll enjoy it, and I look forward to seeing what you think of it!**

-O-

Francis hated waiting. He also hated rocking chairs, although whenever anyone had asked him what the hell was wrong with them, he had been unable to produce a satisfactory reason and fists had usually ended up flying. And the only chair in the small, cinderblock-walled room was - guess what? A rocking chair.

"Fuck," he snarled, throwing himself into the rickety wooden piece of furniture, which groaned in protest under his bulk. One of his booted feet started idly tapping, and he began an intensive study of the ceiling tiles.

Then the single door that led out of the room banged open, and in walked Ellis, a six-pack in one hand and the keys to his truck in the other, whistling tunelessly.

"The hell took you so long?" Francis growled, and Ellis grinned, familiar with his friend's moody spells.

"Jus' ran into a few policemen," the Southerner drawled, spinning the keys around his finger. "Got to talkin' with 'em. Said they musta searched the whole damn town twice by now."

Francis's eyes narrowed. Why would the cops _still_ be searching if they hadn't found anything the first time? Carver was obviously pulling the strings behind the scenes, but what motivation could he have for pointlessly extending the search?

"But you got it, right?" Francis asked, leaning back in the rocking chair and folding his arms over his chest.

"O'course," Ellis affirmed, withdrawing his prize from one of the pockets of his overalls and tossing them to Francis. "I ain't one t' leave a job half done."

Francis snatched the object out of the air, and positively grinned with triumph, his moodiness forgotten. It was his old cell phone, recovered from the wreckage of his apartment. The place had been mobbed with policemen trying to figure out why half of the place was smoking rubble, so Francis hadn't dared go anywhere near it, and sent Ellis out to do it for him.

"If this has what I think it does…" Francis purred, flipping the simple, years-old phone open and bringing it to life with the thumb of a button. As the screen slowly bloomed to life, Francis looked up at Ellis, who was jingling the six-pack.

"Drink?" the mechanic asked simply, and Francis nodded vigorously, extending his free hand. Ellis placed a bottle into the gloved appendage, and Francis deftly removed the cap with his teeth, taking a long pull from the amber liquid as his phone finally came to life.

"Here we go… text message archive… _HELL YES!_" Ellis jumped as Francis burst from his seat, punching the air as he roared in triumph. "Take a look at this! Sent by Rick - he's my 'buddy' who stole the information with me before the infection. Message says 'Hey F, got wind of the cops. Ditched the info in my old apartment's basement.'"

Ellis stared blankly at Francis for several long, awkward seconds. Exasperated, Francis jabbed a finger at the cell phone's screen and yelled "_Evidence! _We finally have a way to get _evidence!_"

Then he sobered, and his face fell as a thought struck him. "But… Rick's old apartment is in Philly. And Philly is still an infested zone."

-O-

Bill had, much to the chagrin of both him and Ellis, been forced to abandon his beloved jeep outside town, as it was easily recognizable from their raid to break Francis out, and now sat in a banged-up, dusty old '94 Chevy pickup that Ellis had scavenged from the scrap yard near his garage and fixed up.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Bill looked up and down the street, scanning for cops or Guardians or whoever the hell Carver was sending after them now. He had sent Louis into what passed for a convenience store in this backwater refugee town for some vital groceries, and was staying outside to watch for any unwelcome surprises.

Suddenly, a slick, polished voice drawled from somewhere to his left and behind him. "Well, look who it is. William Overbeck. Never thought I'd see _you_ again." Bill twisted as far around as the truck seat would let him, and his eyes fell on a familiar countenance. The white dress pants and blue shirt were almost identical to what he remembered, but the coat was missing, probably due to the heat of this desert hellhole. He was leaned up against a nearby lamppost, arms folded over his chest. His refined features were set in an expression of amused curiosity, his dark hair newly slicked back and eyes glittering with subtle humor.

"Nicholas!" Bill said, smiling despite himself. "What the hell brings you all the way out from the rehabilitation hub in Vegas to our little shithole of a town?"

Nick shrugged, shoving off of the lamppost and walking towards Bill's truck. "Investigating. Little sister found some juicy things to chew on, and was off like a bloodhound."

'Little sister' of course referred to Rochelle, who had indeed become something of a sister to the slick con artist during their many travails together. The first time he met them in the evacuation center, Bill had assumed the two to be lovers, but the affection was much more platonic than that.

Bill's eyebrows raised. "Oh? What would these 'juicy things' be, if you don't mind me asking?" he said, leaning out of the truck window a bit.

Nick leaned in conspiratorially, and whispered "Don't tell anyone I told you this, but Rochelle believes that the head of the IPA - a fellow by the name of John Carver - is up to something, and she's been hunting down evidence for her claim ever since we got here."

Bill's eyebrows climbed even farther, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. "Nick," he said, in an equally hushed tone, "There are a few things you need to know."

-O-

"If we're gonna go into Philly, we're gonna need some serious weaponry. Shotguns and pistols ain't gonna cut it anymore," Francis said, pacing back and forth in the back room of Ellis's garage. Said mechanic was sitting in a chair in front of the huge ex-biker, a puzzled frown on his face.

"But… why? I mean, shotguns'n pistols worked jus' fine fer us back in the day," he said, taking a generous swig from the bottle in his hand.

Francis shook his head irritably. "You haven't been out there since you got dumped here, have you? Well, I have. These infested zones, the ones that are left… these are the ones the military, the goddamn _military_, can't clear out. I've seen a few, and they're not pretty. The whole city is cordoned off with ten-foot fences or concrete barriers, the wall patrolled by Army or National Guard or something. Inside, it's hell on earth. The military has thrown dozens of strike teams into each one, and all of those strike teams got killed and turned into more zombies. Combine that with the naturally dense population of those places… I guarantee, Philly'll have several hundred thousand zombies within the barricade, at least. And then there's the fact that, with all that infection bubbling in such an enclosed environment, it gets in the water, the air… the virus is so dense in the infested zones that the rate of mutations has skyrocketed. You remember the 'special infected' from back in the day? They're all over the place. And there are new kinds, kinds no one has ever seen before."

Ellis's eyes had grown steadily wider and wider while Francis was talking, and when the big, tattooed man had finished Ellis simply leaned back in his chair and whistled in appreciation. Francis nodded, his mouth twisting up in a fell smirk. "Yeah," he said, draining his drink. "As I said, we're gonna need bigger guns."

"Huh," Ellis said, reaching up and scratching at the back of his neck. "Yeah, y'ain't kiddin'. Tell y'what, I got a buddy owns a gun shop in the Reclaimed Zone jus' south'a Chicago. Sells all kinds'a cool shit. How 'bout we pay 'im a visit on th' way out there?"

Francis boomed a laugh, clapping Ellis on the shoulder and grinning. "Now that's what I'm talking about. I knew I could count on you, Ellis." Then he frowned in thought, and added "But… we're probably gonna need more than just the two of us. Matter of fact, Bill, Louis and Zoey might be safer out there than in this shithole with Carver's agents sniffin' around after them." Offering Ellis a hand up from his chair, he finished "So. Let's go tell 'em."

-O-

"Holy shit, she was right," Nick breathed, leaning back in his chair and staring across the table at Bill. The old vet nodded, and said "Yeah, she sure was. Carver's a real son of a bitch, and once Francis gets back he can confirm it."

Nick groaned. "Ucch. I still can't believe _Francis_ is out here, let alone that he's the one this whole situation is revolving around."

Bill chuckled. "You still don't like him, eh?"

Nick snorted. "Don't like him? That's an understatement. That greasy, vest-…"

"-Wearing monkey?" came Francis's voice from behind them, finishing the insult. Nick whirled, and his eye fell on the big biker himself, leaning against the front doorframe. His eyes glinted, and he added "Wondered when you were gonna show up, Suit."

Nick's glare could have melted wax. "Just so we're clear, grease ball, I do _not_ want to be here, and the only reason I'm helping you at all is because Rochelle wants me to."

Francis grinned. "Ohh, you're still runnin' around with your 'little sister', huh? Where is she? I gotta say hi."

"She's upstairs," Nick replied, voice dripping with scorn, and turned back to the table. "Do I have to stay for this, or can you guys and Rochelle take it from here?"

"Why such a rush, Suit?" Francis asked, sauntering over and leaning on the back of Nick's chair. "You got a hot date tonight or something?"

Nick turned a withering glare on him - which Francis blithely ignored - and drawled "Why do you ask? Are you jealous because you don't?"

Francis snorted with laughter, slapping Nick's shoulder and causing the other man to recoil in disgust. "Suit, if you only knew…" Francis muttered, still laughing under his breath. "If you only knew…"

Bill interrupted the quarrelling pair by clearing his throat authoritatively, causing the two men to look up. "So, Francis," Bill said, leaning forward on the table. "You and Ellis find anything good?"

Francis's face split in a canine grin, and he withdrew his old cell phone from his pocket and slid it across the table towards Bill. "Read the latest text message," he said, swaggering over to stand next to the old vet.

Bill stiffened as he finished reading, and he looked up at his tattooed companion, who was grinning down at him. "So…" Bill said, motioning towards the phone, "Are we gonna go get this, or what?"

"Read my mind, old man," Francis said, and his grin widened.


End file.
